


The Circus

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Drama, Fluff, Gen, Public Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Mr. David doesn’t get paid enough for this. What it's like dealing with the circus, a.k.a. perspective from the other side of Whitly's cell.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Public Humiliation.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	The Circus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elated_witch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elated_witch/gifts).



Three days on, two days off. His routine only changed once in the past twenty-two years when the hospital shifted from eight to twelve hour days. Eight used to become twelve and sometimes fourteen. Twelve now reaches sixteen on the bad days.

Mr. David thought they would happen less often with the re-emergence of Whitly’s son. But the three-ring circus got worse, the whole Whitly clan invading to install a ring of fire under the big top. Between phone time, consults, visits, and clay time, he was sure someone confused Whitly’s cell with a resort. With the extra privileges came lockdowns and stabbings, the paperwork he was left with trying to finger the blame. Of one thing, he was certain:

They didn’t pay him enough for this shit.

Whitly’s babbling, he could ignore. He’d heard every version of their father-son time under ten, not knowing which was actually true. He wondered if Whitly knew, or if all the attempts at telling his own narrative had lost the verity forever.

How he had been brought in to help New York’s finest was beyond him. Was the department failing so badly that they needed to stoop to the depths of this dangerous cell in Claremont Psychiatric? If serial killer was the standard, could he make it onto the list? The question seemed as extraordinary as the conveniences that surrounded Whitly.

Boasting of surgeries, drawings of conditions described over the phone, requests for amenities no patient would receive: the words flowed through his head, no energy spent on parsing them. Mr. David would watch over Whitly, bring his food, monitor his visits, disregard the rest, and get paid.

Being blamed for the revolving door of Whitly’s antics? He had union protection for that. First, why had he let a scalpel into Whitly’s hands? Then, how had he let a ceramic knife through security? Neither of those things were his department, the scalpel being okayed by his superiors and inspection being the responsibility of reception. There were a myriad of other blemishes and dings from how long Whitly had been on the phone, how many visitors he had, and even complaints from fellow officers that Mr. David was getting preferential treatment via Whitly’s money. Milton - he reminded them.

They didn’t find that funny. Too bad. Maybe Whitly was rubbing off on him.

So much fucking paperwork from the parade of jugglers, trapeze artists, and wire acts he wanted to scream, often did when he finally got to go home after a 16 hour shift. He was working his ass off, yet they wanted to fire him.

But they couldn’t. Removing Mr. David would lead to a cascade of behaviors they’d need to spend more money to control. Money they wouldn’t get if Whitly was dissatisfied. So when another clown exited the car into the tent, Mr. David got a slap on the wrist in form schedules A, B, and C, reviewed in triplicate and redone to his superiors’ satisfaction.

He dreams of what it would be like to quit. Spending a week in bed to pristine quiet, only serving food to himself. Checking in on his kids in Troy, seeing that they had everything they needed. Doing a crossword puzzle because he enjoyed it, not because Whitly wanted to bounce ideas off the only other person in his cell.

But those same kids need medicine. Inhalers and appointments that are so fucking expensive, his shifts at the hospital are a necessity to cover them. He sacrifices proximity to his family for the best job he can get so his kids can finish the last years of high school in comfort.

Just like Claremont can’t fire him, he can’t fire them.

So he walks into Whitly’s cell, 6AM, and brings him breakfast, makes sure he takes his pills, and fulfills any request that’s within the utopian definition of reason. Sits in his chair and observes while Whitly gets himself into whatever act of the day. Hopes it’ll be a 12 hour day and not 16. Goes home. Repeats.

Until one day, Jessica pulls him aside after a lunchtime visit and says, “Don’t let my son back in.”

He wonders why, and if asking the question will somehow get him into more trouble than it’s worth. But he likes the kid, knows things have been worse, knows pacing and tremors and nervous fidgeting he can’t look out for in his own. So he responds, “Okay, but why?”

And she levels in the deepest of tones reserved for the most serious moments, “One day, he’ll kill him.”

She doesn’t specify who is he and who is him. He could be Whitly, manipulating so far behind his son’s eyes only demons would remain. He could be Bright, the flash of darkness spidering through his veins, grounding in a final strike. He could be reciprocal destruction, both of them laid out on either side of the red line.

All scenarios sound like a lot of paperwork.

He agrees and Jessica disappears. He sets up TV time, Martin cheering when his daughter is on screen.

“I need to see Dr. Whitly!” Bright screams in the lobby.

Reception calls up to Mr. David multiple times, splitting his attention between the cell and the hall. What, had he been chasing his mother’s coattails? Had she been preempting him? He closes the cell door behind him, keeping Whitly out of earshot. He doesn’t need a panic attack from the emcee. He reiterates Bright is not to be let up and reopens the cell door.

At shift change, Mr. David gets castigated in front of his fellow guards for not respecting Whitly’s visitation list. The plates were spinning and he’d forgotten to remove Bright’s name as soon as Jessica had requested. Not that he’d had much time.

“What is this, basic training?” one of them snorts, slamming his locker.

“Whitly not giving you enough money?” adds another, snapping a towel against the end of the bench.

“How haven’t you been fired?” bellows a third, tossing an empty canister of deodorant into the garbage.

The peanut gallery prattles on. His fellow officers don’t want much to do with him now that he’s in the front row, unable to choose a different seat.

They can’t fire him.

Ultimate job security, Dr. Martin Whitly.

He doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
